


The Empty Wardrobe

by dakeyras



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventure, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Book/Movie: The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, Canon Compliant, Crowley and Aziraphale Break Things And Try To Fix Them (Good Omens), Crowley is Good at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Gen, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25972690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dakeyras/pseuds/dakeyras
Summary: When Aziraphale gets instructions to miracle up a wardrobe, it doesn't seem like anything can go wrong. Enter Crowley. The angel and demon are left with a magical artefact but no children - can they fix things?(or, My Demon Prisoner Can't Be This Manipulative)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34
Collections: Crossworks 2020, Good Omens





	The Empty Wardrobe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KannaOphelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/gifts).



> I had a great time writing this! Thanks to KannaOphelia for the great prompt; I might have gotten a little carried away with regards to the length, but honestly I could have written another 5-10k without running out of ideas. I hope you enjoy!

1940's London is a grimy mess of rubble and smoke, and that's the areas that haven't been bombed. Crowley is sick to death, metaphorically, of the sound of air raid sirens. That's why, when he's asked to tempt a virtuous village priest out in the countryside, he doesn't ask Aziraphale whether the Arrangement might cover the deed. Instead he hops into his Bentley–petrol rationing really isn't a concern for him–and races down to the village of Wyre Piddle. He parks next to the railway station and looks for the church spire.

Reverend Tinsford is in the middle of a moving eulogy when Crowley arrives. He stands at the entrance to the church, careful not to cross the threshold into holy ground, and mutters under his breath.

The reverend shivers as Crowley's temptation arrives, and his voice falters. "…and so it is with a heavy heart that we must give up dear Thomas to Heaven's grace," he pulls a little at his collar, "where he will surely find comfort in the arms of our Lord." He stops and coughs. "Does anyone have a sip of something to moisten my throat, perchance?"

Within two months the priest will be a raging alcoholic. The souls he would have shepherded to salvation will instead give in to Earthly sin. Crowley nods in satisfaction and leaves. He's almost at his car when he sees a queasy angelic face fly past, hanging out the side of a railway carriage. A splatter of sick just misses the Bentley.

"Where does that train stop next?" Crowley yells at the platform guard.

The man is sitting, sipping from a mug of tea, but looks up when he hears Crowley shout. "That train is going to Himbleton, and then on to Inkberrow. Mind, you won't catch up to it by car."

"Watch me," Crowley says, and hops into his Bentley. He's gone before the guard can reply.

The train is pulling into Himbleton when Crowley arrives. He skids to a stop in a spray of gravel and marches into the carriage that holds Aziraphale. "What are you doing here?" he hisses.

"Throwing up, mostly," Aziraphale replies, still looking a little green around the gills. "I'm on the way to Feckenham to miracle up a wardrobe. I don't know all the details, but some children are meant to be involved. The instructions were a bit vague."

As always, the mere thought of children makes Aziraphale shudder. He's spoken at length to Crowley about how little he enjoys their company–not only is the average child grubby and ill-mannered, but it tends to have no appreciation for either books or dainty little Parisian cafes.

"Let me give you a ride," Crowley says. The conductor blows his whistle and the train lurches into motion; a snap of Crowley's fingers stalls it again. "It's not far to Feckenham by road, but the train stops a half-dozen times on the way. Then we can ride back to London together–I like company on long drives." In truth, he has no idea how long the train will take, but lying comes easy to a demon.

"It would be more comfortable to travel in an automobile," Aziraphale concedes. "And I don't want to appear on the good professor's doorstep with sick all over my jacket."

As they exit the carriage, the train hisses. All that power that Crowley's stopped needs to go somewhere, and once their feet touch the platform, the boiler gives way with a muffled crack. The engineer fills the air with sulphurous swearing. Probably the train won't be moving for a while.

Crowley snorts at Aziraphale's look of alarm. "Don't worry, angel, nobody was hurt."

Four children–siblings, by the looks of them–peer out of the carriage window. Crowley puts them out of his mind as he climbs into the Bentley and drives off.

The country lanes are empty. Once Aziraphale has stopped wincing every time Crowley does a corner at eighty miles per hour, he starts cooing at every pasture full of cows or field thick with wheat. "Give it a rest," Crowley says after the sixth cry of 'look at that lamb!'

Aziraphale pouts. "We angels are supposed to be all about agrarian scenes. Bunches of grapes and bushels of grain and all that."

"It's all very nice and picturesque until you step into a cowpat." Crowley is a city demon at heart. The occasional day trip to the country aside, he prefers the hustle and bustle of urban sprawl.

"It's the next turning," Aziraphale says as they blow past a weathered old signpost. Crowley turns the Bentley down a narrow gravel driveway. The grounds and house are both well-kept.

Professor Kirke is an old man living in a lonely manor house. His housekeeper is stern and unforgiving; Crowley dislikes her on principle. He watches Aziraphale ask to inspect the wardrobe, and struggles not to laugh.

"I'm from the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries. As part of our research into possible foreign pests, I've been tasked with inspecting old wooden furniture in the area. Can I count on your cooperation in this matter?" Aziraphale hands over his 'permit', face shining with hope.

Professor Kirke smiles into his beard. "Why, this appears to be a most serious matter! I suggest you begin with the wardrobe in the spare room. Mrs Macready will guide you there."

"Splendid! My assistant, Crowley, will need to come along as well." Aziraphale smiles at Crowley, but–

"Assistant? Assistant? At least call me your chauffeur next time, angel!" Crowley hisses as they follow the housekeeper to the wardrobe. From Aziraphale's smirk he assumes it's the piece of furniture that needs a miracle.

"Why would I need a chauffeur to help me inspect a wardrobe?" Aziraphale asks, mild as milk. They clatter up a short flight of stairs. "You have to think about these things, Crowley."

The housekeeper has taken them to the room so Crowley changes the topic. "Is that the wardrobe?"

Aziraphale nods. "I'm going to inspect it now." The floorboards creak as he approaches the massive edifice of dark-stained applewood. It has beautiful engravings all over the front. Some of it looks a little like the celestial script, but Crowley can't read it.

Without wasting any time, Aziraphale rolls up his sleeves, walks over and taps the wardrobe's door with a finger. Crowley feels the faint itching that always accompanies a miracle. For some reason, divine energy doesn't like him much.

"Alright, it seems fine. We're ready to go now," Aziraphale declares.

"I'll show you to the next piece of furniture," the housekeeper says.

Crowley sighs. "Is that really necessary?"

"You don't seem to be taking your job very seriously, young man," she snaps. "Why, if the whole country were run by people like you, we should be overrun by foreign wood diseases, I'm sure! I've half a mind to call up your boss and make a complaint." The last word is said with obvious relish, and Crowley doesn't doubt that the chance to whine to some unfortunate official would brighten her entire month. He itches to curse her, but Aziraphale's hand on his shoulder holds him back.

"That won't be necessary," Aziraphale says. "We'll just finish looking at the rest of the furniture, and then leave."

"I won't be needed for this part," Crowley declares, and he wanders off to find the kitchens. He whispers a few words to his partner before he leaves. "Nice cover story, genius."

[scene break here?]

Come nightfall, Aziraphale still hasn't finished. The professor offers to let them stay the night. "It's no problem–we were meant to have some children come to stay due to the evacuation, but their train was delayed at Himbleton. The rooms have been prepared already and now there's nobody to sleep in them."

Aziraphale accepts for them both, then pulls Crowley aside for a hurried discussion. He doesn't look happy. "Do you think they were on the train you broke?"

"I didn't break anything, I just delayed it a while," Crowley says defensively. "Besides, are those even the children who are meant to use the wardrobe?"

"I don't see any other children around here. Do you?" On that note, they agree to leave the rest of the argument for the morning.

The beds are comfortable and Crowley has a good night's sleep. The spread that the cook puts out for breakfast is nice enough that he doesn't mind the delay, but come noon he's desperate to be off.

"Don't stick around on my account," Aziraphale says, waist-deep in a wooden chest of drawers. "I can make my own way back."

But Crowley's set his mind on driving Aziraphale to London. He's not shown his new Bentley off to anyone yet, barring their jaunt through the local lanes, and this is the perfect opportunity. "Don't be ridiculous, angel. Besides, you'd get lost or something."

"I would do no such thing!"

By dusk, Aziraphale has finished, but Professor Kirke asks them to stay another night. "You won't get back to London this evening," he says.

Aziraphale accepts and so Crowley has no choice but to agree as well. "First thing after breakfast, though, we are leaving," he hisses across the table.

There's a break in the conversation as the housekeeper comes into the room, a wide smile on her face. "We've just been contacted via the telephone. The Pevensie children, the ones that were supposed to be staying here, spent last night with another family. The family have now offered to take them on for the duration of the evacuation. We shan't be needed!"

"Probably nothing to worry about," Crowley whispers to Aziraphale, who's writing 'Pevensie' down on a napkin for later. "They'll get some other children or something. It'll sort itself out. Not our problem."

"That's a shame," Professor Kirke says to Mrs Macready.

She frowns. "With no children coming, there is no chance of you being disturbed. No noise, no mess, no stress. This is good news!"

"Well done," Aziraphale tells Crowley, anger flashing in his eyes.

"Sarcasm? Really? I didn't know your kind were allowed to do that!"

The rest of the argument waits until they're settling down for the night.

"This is really bad," Aziraphale says, pacing back and forth in their room. "What am I going to do?"

"Look, just get some new children from somewhere. Does it have to be exactly four? I know a guy who can get you a bulk discount." Crowley does his best to reassure Aziraphale, but it doesn't seem to be working.

"We're not buying children! And, oh, I don't even know if it would work. Maybe it needs to be the same ones." Aziraphale is all aflutter, frantic hands patting himself down as though he's about to find the Pevensie family in his back pocket.

Crowley leans back on his bed, putting his feet up. "Sounds like the first thing to do is find out what the wardrobe does. Then we'll know whether we need to bring the Pevensies here or just drop a few village children in."

"Yes. Exactly! Well, what are you waiting for?" Aziraphale asks.

"What, me?"

Aziraphale pulls Crowley to his feet. "Yes, you. It's your fault we're in this mess. Come on then!"

They creep down the hallway to the spare room, keeping an ear out for the professor or his housekeeper. Crowley has no idea what sort of cover story they could come up with, if they were caught. The spare room is close by, and the door isn't locked.

"It's quite imposing in the dark, isn't it?" Aziraphale murmurs.

Crowley pushes past him and into the room. "Don't be such a baby." He runs his hands over the outside, feeling the holy power flowing through the wood. It's dormant, and either way it's channelled in such a way that it doesn't hurt. The feeling is strange, like holding a cold thermos full of boiling hot tea.

"I think the magic is concentrated on the inside," Aziraphale says. He's come closer but he still hasn't touched the wardrobe.

Crowley traces the carvings in the panels on the front. "What did you do to this thing?"

"Oh, I don't quite know, I was just supposed to power it up. The carvings were done a good few years ago by someone else. Do you think it's safe?"

"Safe as houses, I'm sure." Crowley smacks the side. There's a hollow booming sound and he freezes.

For a moment, all seems fine, but then there's the faint sound of footsteps. Someone's come to check on the noise.

"Quick, into the wardrobe!" Crowley hisses.

Aziraphale looks dubious. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"It's either that or get caught." During the argument, Crowley has pulled the wardrobe door open. It's musty inside, and there's barely any room between the fur coats hanging from the rail.

The angel has come a little closer. "I still don't know if it's safe– eep!" he squeaks as Crowley pushes him in.

"Move up!" Crowley demands as he steps through too. "I need to be able to close the door."

The wardrobe door swings shut of its own accord as he speaks, and between the tangle of limbs and the darkness, he and Aziraphale both fall backwards, tumbling head-over-heels down a freezing cold slope. Crowley sees stars as his head bounces off something hard, but rather than clearing away the lights resolve into a piercing winter sun. His head is resting on a tree root and he scowls as he sits up. Before him is a thicket of fir trees, with two coats dangling from the branches, taunting him.

Crowley scowls. "I guess that answers what this wardrobe does."

"I didn't know this was something we could do!" Aziraphale says in amazement behind him. "A big room inside a small space? This is marvellous!"

Crowley grunts, reaching around the firs to try and find a way back. A loosely-packed snowball explodes against the back of his head and he spins around, hackles raised. "Do that again, angel, and you will regret it."

"Would it kill you to have some fun for once in your life?" Aziraphale asks, grinning. "This is great!"

"Really? Then I'm sure you'd be happy to tell me how we get back home," Crowley says. There's an awkward silence for a few moments.

Eventually, Aziraphale ventures a response. "Shall we split up and have a look around? We can't be far from the entrance, after all."

"Sure. We'll meet back here in an hour," Crowley decides, grabbing the larger coat and wrapping it around himself. He stomps off through the snow, melting ice trickling down the back of his neck. He mutters under his breath as he walks. "Fool of an angel."

"I heard that!" Aziraphale shouts after him, taking the second fur coat. "Besides, you're the one who got us stuck here."

After ten minutes of walking, Crowley is lost and freezing. The snow lies in drifts that reach up to his knees, and some has wormed its way into his boots and melted, leaving him with wet feet. He perks up as he hears jingling bells.

The sleigh bears down on him out of nowhere, white reindeer perfectly disguised against the thin fog that seeps between the trees. Crowley leaps out of the way, swearing. So much for getting answers, but at least he's not been run over to boot. The driver needs to learn some manners, he decides.

He curses the sleigh but– "That's odd," he says, brows furrowing. His powers don't work. Then he curses again, because he's in a foreign place, there's strange things afoot, and his powers don't work.

And then the sleigh slows and stops. A short figure of indeterminate gender, wearing a red hat, gets out. "Excuse me," Crowley calls, setting his worries aside for the moment. "Can you tell me where I am?"

The figure skids to a stop and Crowley sees that it's extremely short, practically a dwarf. In its hand is a wicked-looking dagger. "You're in Narnia, in the presence of the Queen," it growls.

"I, ah, appear to have gotten a bit lost," Crowley tries, eyeing the pitted iron blade. "I don't suppose you could point me back to wherever the wardrobe is? Or even England would be fine."

"You are in the presence of the Queen," the wretched thing repeats. "On your knees!"

It punctuates its demands with a jab of its dagger. Crowley's pretty sure he could run away, what with his longer legs, but he's been slogging through snow so long that he doesn't particularly want to pick up the pace. Besides, there's nowhere else to get answers in this forsaken pile of snow and ice.

With a long-suffering sigh he sinks down. The snow would be cold on his knees, except they're already frozen stiff. "Now can I ask her a few questions?"

"Ginarrbrik, who is that? Bring him to me," an imperious voice demands. She sounds impatient.

Ginarrbrik grabs Crowley's jacket and from up close, Crowley can make out a frosted-over beard on the gnarled face.

He pushes the hand away and straightens out his jacket, standing and following the gremlin to the sleigh. "Be careful with that, it's Italian leather."

"Come now, dwarf, do not dawdle." Where the voice held whimsy it's now full of unspoken threats.

"My Empress," the dwarf intones, rushing close. "He is a strange fellow, an oversized dwarf with no beard!"

She hisses and lashes out; the reins strike him across the face and he falls to the ice. "Fool! He is a Son of Adam, a man! Be nicer to our guest, lest I have to remind you of your place again."

What with the violence and the knife, Crowley is starting to get a bad feeling about this. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Ginarrbrik shoots a look of pure fear at the sleigh. The demon, for his part, strolls up and pulls off his sunglasses. He winks at the woman inside. "Do I look like a Son of Adam?" he asks, yellow eyes flashing in the frosty air.

"You have the most remarkable hair," she tells him. It's an odd thing to fixate on, given the rest of Crowley's appearance, but then again her own locks are far from normal. Pale and twisted strands of hair meld into the icy crown that perches upon her head. Her face is beautiful and terrible in equal measure, eyes alight with a never-ending hunger for power over all things.

It reminds Crowley a lot of home. Grinning, he runs his fingers through his hair. "I use Amami styling lotion to give it more volume."

Her laugh is high and cold. "You must be freezing out there. Come, sit here by me. You have nothing to fear–I am a benevolent ruler."

"You sound trustworthy," Crowleys says as he climbs into the sleigh. He hopes that the Queen can't hear his eyes roll. It's not one of his better ideas, but he does need the information. Besides, how dangerous could a monarch get? Kings and Princes have been getting soft ever since they stopped jousting regularly, in his opinion.

It's even colder when he's sitting beside the Queen. Malice rolls off her in waves, draining warmth and hope out of the air and Crowley both.

He might not have his full powers, but a trick like that is well within Crowley's wheelhouse. "Lovely weather," he offers as he lets his human garb slip just a touch. Flaming red hair becomes red flames; alabaster skin is now the pallid white of a corpse. The Queen flinches away from the rolling heat.

"What manner of creature are you?" she whispers, right hand inching down to her thigh.

Crowley grins, and there's too many too-sharp teeth in his mouth. Things have gotten dangerous real quick, but he lives for those moments where he's dancing on the edge of the knife. "I'm one of a kind, baby. Now, for the love of– just tell me where I am and what's going on!"

Her hand comes up, wielding a wand. The black-and-silver rod is full of so many sins that it hurts to look at. Crowley has no idea how the Queen can stand touching it. She stares into his eyes, sneering, as she sends a bolt of dark-grey energy into his midsection.

Crowley's hair is just hair again, his skin is mere skin. The mask is back in place. He feels bone-tired, like lead weights have been draped over him. His head falls back against the cushions and his glasses go flying off his nose. He's going to miss them; his spare pair in his jacket pocket isn't tinted quite so dark.

For a moment there's silence in the sleigh. He's not sure which of them is more surprised by this turn of events.

"Bind him," she orders, voice high and imperious. Crowley detects a trace of panic.

"Now that's really not necessary–"

Boarding the sleigh wasn't the greatest idea, in hindsight. Aziraphale will have a fit when he finds out Crowley got into a stranger's vehicle. Of course, first Aziraphale will miss him when he doesn't make the rendezvous–

Crowley's world goes dark as the dwarf pulls a thick sack over his head. The reindeer leap forwards and with a jingling and a jangling, the sleigh pulls away into the forest.

-O-

Aziraphale wanders through the pines, cooing at the snow drifts, the glorious smell of sap, black needles against a pale grey sky. It's beautiful scenery and he's not seen its equal for a good dozen centuries. Soft lantern light falls through a gap in the treeline and he decides it will serve as well as any other bearing.

Crowley could do with a nice trip to a masseuse or something, Aziraphale decides. Otherwise the stress will get to him and he'll have an aneurysm or a heart attack or whatever happens to demons when their blood pressure goes through the roof.

The lantern light is coming from, of all things, a lantern. It's out here in the deep forest all on its own. Aziraphale prods it.

"That's a lamp post," a nervous voice says from behind him.

Aziraphale nods. "I can see that. I was curious what it was doing out here."

"I don't know. It's always been here, I suppose. Do lanterns need reasons?"

"Lanterns normally have reasons, even if they don't need them. But that doesn't mean this one will." Aziraphale turns to face his conversational partner and gasps. The man has goat legs, and horns growing out the front of his head. "Oh I am most terribly sorry. I haven't introduced myself yet. I'm Aziraphale, and I'm, um, a regular normal human. With no special powers or anything."

The goat-man drops his packages. "My name is Tumnus, and I'm a faun. Pleased to meet you. But enough about me–are you really truly a human? A Son of Adam?"

Is that blasphemy? Aziraphale doesn't think so, but then again he didn't think Crowley's joke about a priest, a rabbi and an imam was blasphemy, and yet it got him into rather hot water.

"Yes. Yes, I am. Two hands," he flaps them about, "two legs, one head, and so on."

"Praise Aslan," Tumnus says. His legs tremble and he falls down, sitting on the snow as he struggles to control his frantic breathing.

"Easy there, easy. You're panicking." Aziraphale pulls out some smelling salts and wafts them near the faun's face. Tumnus' delicate nose twitches furiously and then he comes to his senses.

He grabs Aziraphale by the shoulders. "You have been spoken of in prophecy!"

"I, um, I don't think that's me," Aziraphale stutters. A suspicion is starting to grow about what exactly the Pevensie children were supposed to be doing here. "In fact, I can go and fetch the real prophesied ones if you'll just help me find the wardrobe I came from."

Despite the angel's protests, Tumnus isn't listening. He stares at Aziraphale's feet, of all things, while muttering to himself.

"When Adam's flesh and Adam's bone,

Sits at Cair Paravel in throne,

The evil time will be over and done."

"I'm not allowed to sit on any thrones. That's self-aggrandisement, which is a type of pride, and it's a big sin," Aziraphale says. He wishes Crowley were here–he normally does the convincing when they wind up tangled in other people's plots.

Tumnus struggles to his feet and starts gathering his dropped packages. "Come, come, let's have some tea. It's always better to discuss things out of the cold. I don't live far from here."

Should he go? Aziraphale is torn, but in the end the offer of a cup of tea wins him over. It's a mite chilly, after all, and Tumnus seems like he knows his way around the area. If he's a bit late getting back to the rendezvous, he can make up for it by bringing valuable information. They set off down a well-worn path through the trees.

The crack in the rocks that Tumnus has turned into his home is a great deal more welcoming than Aziraphale expects. The cosy armchairs arranged around the fireplace remind him of the reading room in his bookshop. Tumnus puts on the kettle and pulls out a plate of biscuits.

"I can't stay long, I'll have to go meet Crowley," Aziraphale says, helping himself to a chocolate bourbon. "He came here with me but we split up to have a look around. I do hope he finds the way home."

"Is he a trustworthy sort of fellow?" Tumnus asks.

Aziraphale laughs. "Far from it. He's obstinate and emotional and as straightforward as a sack of corkscrews. But you can rely on Crowley to be Crowley, and one thing he's very good at is getting information from people."

Tumnus pours out two cups of tea. "If we have a moment before you must leave, let me tell you a little bit about Narnia," he says, settling into his seat with a happy wiggle. "In spring, you can see a thousand thousand blossoms in the woods, and the dryads dance through them all night. Once, when I was just a child…"

Aziraphale lets the words wash over him. The faun paints a picture of a happy land where all are free to feel the sun on their face and the wind in their hair. It's so vivid that Aziraphale can almost taste the sweet peaches in summer, and feel a cool autumn stream around his toes.

There's a brief break in the monologue. "So what went wrong?" Aziraphale asks.

And just like that the spell is broken. "The White Witch took over Narnia. Queen Jadis," Tumnus turns to spit into the fire, "cast a spell over the entire country to make it always winter. A hundred years of winter, can you imagine that? And never Christmas, either."

Aziraphale finishes his tea, standing to go. "That's terrible. I wish there was something I could do to help, but for now I need to meet with my friend. He and I are both lost, you see, and need to get back home."

"There is something you can do! There's a prophecy, the one I mentioned earlier. Two sons of Adam and two daughters of Eve will end the White Witch's reign and restore Narnia to her former greatness." Tumnus grabs Aziraphale's hand and stares into his eyes. "You're our only hope."

Aziraphale gently pulls his hand free. "I know the four people you're talking about. If Crowley and I can get back home, I'll send them through to you and they can do their prophesied duty."

"This Crowley, is he a Son of Adam as well?" Tumnus asks. "I need to meet him!"

Rather than protest, Aziraphale just nods. Let Crowley deal with this; it's his fault they're stuck in wherever-this-is in the first place. He takes Tumnus with him to meet Crowley, hurrying through the snow and fretting that he's five minutes late.

The meeting-place is empty. A light dusting of fresh snow has started to fill in the old tracks Crowley and Aziraphale left when they set off, and there's no sign that anyone's returned. There's only one explanation–Crowley has got lost.

"I don't see this Crowley anywhere," Tumnus says, scanning the trees. "Are you sure this is the right place?"

"Yes, he was meant to meet me here. He must still be wandering around out there." Aziraphale starts following the tracks in the snow. "We need to find him."

"Of course," Tumnus says, grabbing his hand. There's a tracker who lives nearby. With Beaver on the trail we'll get your friend in no time at all."

-O-

"I will enjoy tasting your flesh," the wolf snarls. "I will rip into the soft skin of your neck and spill your blood upon the floor."

"Yes, yes, you've already said," Crowley replies from his cell. It's dark, grimy, and has a constant drip just over the bed. As dungeons go, he's enjoying this one immensely. Besides, it's opposite the throne room, so all sorts of interesting folk wander past. "But what I'm saying is, how do you know you'll get to eat me? The Queen turns most of her captives into statues, after all."

"The loyal are rewarded," the wolf replies, a little less certain.

Crowley nods. "Of course, of course, the loyal are rewarded. But what you should be asking yourself is this: are the loyal rewarded enough?"

"What do you mean?"

In the shadows, Crowley's smile spreads all across his face. Now this is what he was born to do. "Well, let's start simple. What's your name?"

The wolf bares its fangs. "I'm Maugrim, Captain of the Secret Police."

"Maugrim, have you ever come across the term 'worker's strike'?" Behind Crowley's tinted glasses, his eyes are glowing with anticipation.

It's almost too easy after that.

"You are a most informative prisoner," Maugrim tells him when they are done. "I have much to discuss with the others."

"Bring them along next time, so I can help you convince them," Crowley tells him.

Maugrim lopes off to speak to the rest of his police force. Talking animals; whatever will Crowley run into next? Although come to think of it, Maugrim is smarter than a good few humans Crowley's stumbled across. Perhaps it's no surprise he can talk.

By the time Maugrim has decided that Crowley's ideas have merit, he's also had a chance to speak to the minotaur general of the Queen's army. His name is Otmin, and he doesn't think his troops are given enough holiday time. It's hurting morale and recruitment.

"Surely the Queen would listen to your advice," Crowley says, syrupy-sweet, keeping his smile on the inside for a change.

The minotaur grunts. "I tried that. She said no."

"Oh dear." Crowley rests his chin on his hand, the model of deep thought. "I've had an idea, actually. What if, and hear me out on this, you asked for some re-organising of the Queen's forces?"

"I'm listening," Otmin grunts. If everyone was as reasonable as the minotaur, Crowley's life would be much easier.

Now, how to best approach this. "I've heard that the wolves in the Secret Police spend a lot of time hanging around the castle," Crowley begins. "Not really pulling their weight. Maybe, maybe, you could get a few wolves to cover some patrol routes, that sort of thing. Then you could send some of your soldiers home for a bit, or at least let them lounge around the castle. It sounds to me like that would be more fair."

Otmin shakes his head. "The Queen isn't keen on that sort of thing."

"Is that because she thinks it's a bad idea, or because Maugrim has been manipulating her?" At Otmin's blank look, Crowley elaborates. "Maybe Maugrim's been lying to her. That's why your ideas fall on deaf ears."

"It is true that Maugrim has a… skewed view on his own importance. In fact, just last week, he threatened to withdraw his wolves if the Queen did not bow to his wishes," Otmin says slowly. "Perhaps I will speak with him."

"Best not to mention my involvement," Crowley adds. "It would just muddy the waters, and we wouldn't want any sort of confusion or chaos happening, would we?"

He can't quite hide his grin on that last line.

-O-

"This isn't good," Beaver, a talking beaver, says as he retraces Crowley's steps through the snow.

Aziraphale isn't happy to hear that. "What isn't good? What's the matter?"

Beaver stops and scratches his neck with a hind foot. Considering some of the angels and demons that Aziraphale has met, an animal that can speak English isn't so strange, but he's still taking a moment to adjust. "The White Witch often passes through this neck of the woods," Beaver says.

"That doesn't mean Crowley is gone forever. He might not even have met her," Tumnus adds. He doesn't sound all that certain, though.

Beaver scurries onwards, following the trail. "Let's find the end of the tracks before we start worrying over what they mean, eh?"

"Wise words," Aziraphale mutters and follows him.

Crowley must have been in a hurry. The footprints are far apart and have a deep imprint on the heel. Once the trees thin, though, he's slower, picking his way between deeper snowdrifts.

The footsteps end where sleigh tracks pass through the woods. Beaver doesn't need to say anything; the look on his and Tumnus' faces tells the whole story.

"She must have taken him. Your friend's in the bowels of the Witch's castle now," Beaver says. He pats Aziraphale on the thigh, which is as high as he can reach. His voice is thick with grief. "Everyone knows someone who's wound up there."

"Maybe I can go get him back?" Aziraphale asks.

Tumnus laughs but there's no mirth in the sound. "You'd need an army."

"There's dwarf footprints here," Beaver says, nose close to the ground. "Looks like they got out, wandered around, and got back on. Crowley walked up to the sleigh, though. He wasn't dragged."

"Is there any chance he intended to go with her?" Tumnus isn't quite accusing anyone yet, but he doesn't sound happy.

Aziraphale winces, then tries to answer the question truthfully. "He wouldn't… would he?" He paces up and down. "No, no, that's not Crowley's style at all. He's capital-E Evil at times, sure, but he's not bad."

"Look," Beaver says, and hands over a pair of custom sunglasses. Aziraphale winces when he sees that the animal picked them up by the glass. He supposes that if it's been winter for a hundred years, Beaver might never have seen sunglasses before. "This was lying in the snow. It might be a clue."

"Those belong to Crowley. He'd never leave them behind if he had a choice." Aziraphale strides over to the beaver, relieved on the one hand but feeling a rising wave of stress on the other. Something must be done. "We don't have any time to waste. Wherever Crowley is being kept, I'm sure he's suffering."

Beaver pulls them back into cover behind some bushes. "Let's not stand in the open too long; no telling who else will come past."

"So what now?" Tumnus asks.

"Now it just so happens that I know of a place we can go, where there's a gathering of like-minded folks who hate the Witch and might be able to help us," Beaver whispers. "The Army of the Lion, they're called. If anyone can get Crowley out, it will be them."

-O-

The wolves clustered around Crowley's cell are mid-conversation when a rangy old hound with pale fur barrels around the corner. "Dwarves are coming," he pants, and the wolves scatter to the four winds.

"See you later," Crowley calls after them. Maugrim's brought his three lieutenants today, Ronrir, Lupnir and Skorar, and they're almost as eager to learn as their captain is. He hopes they'll come back after the dwarves are gone.

The heavy tread of hobnail boots on stone heralds the arrival of the Queen's right hand.

"The Queen's got some questions for you," Ginarrbrik growls. He's brought four dwarves with him and they glare through the iron bars at the prisoner. "Put these on."

Crowley stares at the set of manacles that have just landed in his cell with a sound like a dozen suits of armour falling down the stairs. "No, I don't think I will."

"That wasn't a request, it was an order!"

"Look at me." Crowley waves an elegant arm, sweeping from his toes to the top of his coiffed hair. "I'm dapper. I'm smart. What I am not, however, is a hulking brute of a man who can move under the weight of all that iron."

The dwarves form a huddle for some quick problem-solving. "Alright, here's what we'll do," Ginarrbrik says. "You'll wear one of the manacles around your wrist, and Lugadug will wear the other manacle. We'll skip the leg irons, seeing as you're so frail."

That last bit is accompanied by a great deal of sneering.

"Gosh, I've always wanted my own group of burly bodyguards," Crowley says as he slips the first manacle on. It's made for broader wrists than his own, and he realises he can slip his hand out if he decides he'd rather be somewhere else. "I just always figured they'd be better-looking."

He's escorted to the Queen in frosty silence. As he walks, he whistles a jaunty tune, taking care to ruin the pitch of every fourth note. It's an auditory experience a little bit like feeling someone's breath on your neck on the bus, except when you turn around there's nobody nearby.

It's important to get into the right frame of mind before taunting arcane powers with power over life and death, he's found.

"What manner of creature are you?" the Queen demands when he's dragged before her.

Crowley makes a great show of peering around the throne room, staring at the walls, the ceiling, the floor and the throne itself. "Nice place you've got here, but it's a little, ah, derivative. And the ice theme is kind of played out, wouldn't you say?"

Two spots of colour appear high on her pale cheeks. Her hand dips just a little, hanging close to that evil wand. "If you want to keep a tongue in that smart mouth of yours, I suggest it remains civil."

"Just making small talk," Crowley says. He's watching her hand from behind his sunglasses. Any moment now, she's going to blast him again. "You should try it sometime, it's great for making friends."

The Queen sends a dart of dark energy into his chest and his whole body sags. It's the second time he's been hit, and his suspicions about the wand are confirmed. He staggers, leans on the dwarf to his left, then falls to the ground, letting the chains rattle as they hit the marble tiles.

Crowley's a creature of pure darkness. Hitting him with, essentially, distilled shadows is never going to cripple him. The Queen is trying to burn down a fire, and is about as likely to succeed. Still, she doesn't seem to know how her wand works, so Crowley's willing to bet that his feigned weakness will be taken at face value.

"Do you want another hit, wretch?" she asks.

"No more, please," Crowley sobs. His sunglasses hide the sparkle in his eyes. "Ask your questions and I will answer them truthfully."

"From the beginning, then. What manner of creature are you?"

"I'm a human, a Son of Adam, though I was born with strange gifts," Crowley sobs. He doesn't know what answer she wants, so he's laying some general misleading groundwork he can build on later. "I never knew my father," technically true in the biological sense, "and my mother never spoke of him," also not a lie, strictly speaking, "so I can't tell you more."

"There," the Queen purrs, "was that so hard?"

No, it wasn't. In fact, Crowley decides, it's almost too easy. "Is there anything else you would have me answer?"

"How many others of you are there?"

"I don't understand what you mean," Crowley says. "There are many more humans in England, but only one other came with me to this land. A short fellow with white hair and the cutest face you'll ever see."

"And where is this other human?" she asks, and there's a flash of hunger in her eyes.

Crowley weighs up a few options. He can send her on a wild goose chase, or pretend not to know, but his favourite trick will always be to sow distrust by implicating one of his enemies. "He was close by when I came through, and took shelter with– I mustn't say."

"Tell me!" the Queen barks, but Crowley shakes his head, keeping his gaze to the floor. "Tell me at once or you will suffer most terribly!"

"If I tell you, I will suffer as well, and die in the most dreadful manner," Crowley says, trying to force fear rather than laughter into his voice. "For I was cowed into silence by someone who has access to my cell."

The temperature in the room plummets. Another blast from the Queen's wand hammers into Crowley, pressing him up against the floor. "You lie," she hisses, eyes wild with rage. "There are none who would dare defy me in that manner."

"Please, no more, I beg you," Crowley howls. She's taken the bait. Now, who to place the blame on? "I will tell you the name."

"See that you do," the Queen orders.

Maugrim or Otmin, who does he want to weaken? Otmin has more troops under his command, but he's less loyal to the Queen and his soldiers are less loyal to him. Maugrim is a tougher nut to crack, even if he has fewer followers.

"When Aziraphale came through with me, we split up. When we met again, he described meeting a kind wolf. The wolf told him of a plot to overthrow the evil witch who rules the country." Crowley feels the tension in the room. "Must I go on?"

"Give me the name!" The Queen hits him with the third jolt of power in as many minutes, and this time Crowley rolls with the blow. His hands are tingling from the energy running through him, and he thinks he could manage a minor curse or two.

From the Queen's voice–imperious and haughty, but with a kernel of fear that runs bone deep–Crowley knows he has her hooked. "He said the wolf's name was Lupner, or something along those lines. He has a dark stripe across his left flank."

She scowls for a second. "Lupner–do you mean Lupnir?"

"Yes, that's it! But he works here and I have seen him pass by my cell. I shudder to think of what will happen to me now." Crowley wonders if he's working too hard, but the Queen is taking everything at face value.

"Ginarrbrik, bring me this traitor," the Queen demands. "And lock the prisoner up again; I will have more questions for him later."

As he's dragged back to his cell, Crowley filches a dagger from one of the dwarf guards. It fits under his jacket and by the time the empty sheath is noticed, he'll have stashed it somewhere in his cell. It will come in handy, he's sure.

-O-

"I have to admit," Aziraphale says, "I was expecting more."

Clustered in the lee of a small hill is a shabby pile of tents and makeshift huts. Downtrodden fantastical creatures hurry through the sleet, heads kept down. Apart from the horns and fur, the scene wouldn't be out of place in any of half a dozen London slums. It certainly doesn't look like an army, 'of the Lion' or otherwise.

"Let's announce ourselves," Beaver says. "I imagine they're a mite twitchy, and we don't want to start off on the wrong foot."

That seems sensible, so Aziraphale follows him into the camp. At the perimeter a pair of centaurs meet them and take them to the gaudiest tent, in the middle of the encampment.

Inside is the scariest centaur Aziraphale has seen yet. Despite the thick winter furs he's wearing, he's carrying inhuman amounts of muscle and three massive swords are strapped to his torso. "Welcome, Narnians," he says, and his voice is honeyed wine in summer. Aziraphale feels the tension leave his shoulders at the sound. No wonder he's in charge.

"General Brightstream," Beaver greets him, dipping to one knee. "It's good to see you again."

"Rise, Beaver. We kneel for none save Aslan here," Brightstream tells him.

Tumnus also rises from his knees. "We have come to you because we have found a Son of Adam wandering through Lantern Waste. His companion was taken prisoner by the White Witch."

Aziraphale nods. "He's called Crowley. I was told you might be able to free him?"

Brightstream bows his great head, and Aziraphale is surprised to see that his ears are long and pointed. "We cannot yet challenge the Witch on open ground, let alone assault her strongholds."

"Why even form an army if you can't use it for anything?"

"Six months ago we carried out a string of raids. Our old camp was discovered and we had to relocate further from the Witch's base of operations. We're waiting for the situation to improve," the centaur explains.

Aziraphale won't accept that, though. "Well you've waited long enough! It's time to get to work and do something about the White Witch if she's so terrible."

"I suppose, with a Son of Adam here, the time to strike is coming closer," Tumnus says. "I can spread word to the local fauns and see how many are willing to join us."

Brightstream sighs. "Would that we had the strength to ride for the Witch's castle this very night. If you really want to move us along, I suggest you go looking for recruits. I will not lead this army to ruin for anyone, even a Son of Adam spoken of in prophecy."

"How hard can it be?" Aziraphale asks. He's feeling worse and worse about his lie, but coming out and saying that he's an angel instead of a man won't smooth things over. That goes double if he lets on as to Crowley's true nature.

Tumnus pulls his scarf tight around his neck as he prepares to step back out into the cold. "I have a few friends in the area. We can ask around and gather more troops, especially now that we have prophecy on our side."

"Do we really need to mention the prophecy bit?" Aziraphale asks.

-O-

Perhaps a ticketing system would be useful, Crowley decides. He's been so busy with various visitors that he needs to impose some sort of order. Amusingly enough, they're all under the impression that they're the only ones who talk to him.

"What's going on with the Queen?" Maugrim asks Crowley. "She's cut me out of the loop and everyone refuses to speak with me."

"I overheard two of the dwarves discussing something. Ginarrbrik is trying to organise some kind of plot, and he has the Queen's ear," Crowley says. He's planted the seeds of mistrust, and now it's time to harvest the violence that will grow. "Although why he would be afraid of the secret police, I don't know. Regardless of his own plans, your first concern is the protection of the Queen and her realm. And ferreting out traitors. So he should have no concerns about you."

Maugrim flicks an ear, although Crowley has no idea what that means. Animal body language is not one of his strengths. "Lupnir has gone missing. I must see to my pack. We will speak more on this later; dangerous things are afoot."

The next person to wander by is Otmin. "I do not like the rumours that have reached me. Bad things are afoot, and if one of Maugrim's pack is involved then there will be others. And yet we cannot function without a police force, and I do not want my soldiers to have an extra duty placed upon their shoulders."

"Who do the dwarves follow?" Crowley asks. "I see them wander up and down the halls with not a care in the world."

"Ginarrbrik is their leader, and he answers only to the Queen. His dwarves are servants and executioners both. There is little they will not do in her service." Otmin is disgusted by their lack of morals, it's clear to see.

Perhaps that will be useful in future. Crowley has a dwarven dagger stashed behind a loose stone in the wall–it might be more useful kept on his person. Killing the right person with it would light a match in a castle that he's transforming into a powder keg.

He runs his fingers through his hair. Despite his failing powers, his hairstyle hasn't been affected. It's as crisp as the last time he walked out of a salon. "I don't suppose the dwarves could replace Maugrim's pack, even as a temporary measure?"

Otmin shakes his head. "They lack the guile and speed that makes the Secret Police so effective. And besides, Maugrim would take any attempt to remove him as a threat and an insult."

Crowley has come to the same assessment, which is why he's trying to arrange for things to happen that way. "So does that mean Maugrim is still in charge of rooting out dissidents, even while he and his wolves are suspected of betraying the Queen? That seems wrong."

"Maugrim himself is not a suspect," Otmin says.

"Not a formal suspect," Crowley corrects him. "But you must at least consider the notion, no?"

Otmin shrugs. "Perhaps. Who can say?"

When Maugrim passes by next, his ears are flat against his skull. "Everything alright?" Crowley asks, but he gets no reply.

It's the last time the wolf is welcome in the castle. Lupnir must have been a coward, because he turned on the entire pack when the Queen leant on him. Crowley is surprised; he thought it would take more than a single fabricated claim to eliminate the thirty-odd wolves under the Queen's command.

Otmin sends soldiers to arrest them, but few of the Secret Police have any interest in entering the cells that used to hold their captives. Crowley doesn't know who struck first, but it's a bloody massacre, and Otmin's eyes are dark with grief as he lists off the names of twenty of his soldiers who lie buried beneath the hard earth.

"Maugrim was among the fallen, so there is some consolation there," the minotaur says. "One less traitor to the Queen."

"How did she take the news?" Crowley asks. "Or Ginarrbrik, for that matter?"

Otmin frowns. "The Queen was most displeased, but Ginarrbrik did not seem all that perturbed. He has been given a new command, and the Queen depends on him for more of her security needs now."

"Even after your soldiers bled and died for her? That doesn't seem fair," Crowley says. Otmin doesn't bother pretending to disagree.

They sit in silence for a long time until the minotaur speaks again. "Sometimes I fear that Ginarrbrik will turn on her. He has ever been ambitious and he now has complete control of the castle, save for the barracks and the throne room. There are only two things he could want–the army, or Narnia itself."

-O-

The Army of the Lion had sixty-odd soldiers when Aziraphale first came across it. As he watches Tumnus shepherd the last of the new recruits into their tents, he scratches his head. They should be two hundred strong now, and their military might is even greater than numbers alone would suggest. An oversized tent at the edge of the camp holds a pair of giants.

There is also a satyr who swears up and down that he knows the location of the wardrobe, which is more important from Aziraphale's point of view. Tumnus is marking the location on a map for him.

Beaver has taken a handful of the nimbler animals to scout a path to the White Witch's castle. Apparently there's too many soldiers for them to just wander through the woods; Aziraphale supposes that's a good problem to have. He sees the value of waiting and building their forces, but at the same time the thought of Crowley locked up and abused is weighing on him.

Who knows what might happen to Crowley, or who Crowley might happen to?

"Aziraphale," General Brightstream greets him when the angel strides into the camp. "Our numbers grow by the day. Your efforts are paying off."

"Yes, yes, that's all very well but we still aren't moving," Aziraphale says. It's a frequent argument between the two of them–he'll ask to get the soldiers travelling towards the Witch's castle, and Brightstream will tell him to be patient. He prepares for another lecture on the value of thorough preparation.

Brightstream smiles and turns his face to the sky. "That's because we're loading supplies onto the carts. Our soldiers are ready and waiting will accomplish little. Mars is in the ascendant; the heavens cry out that now is the time to strike. We'll set off at first light tomorrow."

"Oh." Aziraphale has no idea how to reply.

"None of this would have been possible without your hard work," the centaur says as he claps the angel on the shoulder. "It will be a difficult battle, but we have some hope of victory if we strike fast and hard, before the Witch can muster her full army. Now get some rest."

Aziraphale nods and turns to walk to his tent. He stops to fix his scarf and overhears Brightstream thinking out loud behind him.

"The stars warn of ruin," Brightstream whispers. "But ruin for who?"

-O-

Ginarrbrik comes to fetch Crowley again. "The Queen has more questions," he says, grinning from ear to ugly ear. Crowley doesn't miss the way he runs a finger over the hilt of his skinning knife.

"Well, I would hate to keep such a polite young lady waiting," he says. "Pass me the manacle."

A different dwarf is attached to the other end of the chain this time. Crowley is able to keep the manacle loose on his wrist again–it will be easy to slide it off if the need arises. The hard pommel of his stolen dagger presses against his stomach under his coat.

They haven't searched either him or his cell. This is a real amateur operation by Hell's standards.

"Do you mind telling me what's going on? I was in the middle of a lovely nap," Crowley says as he enters the throne room.

The Queen flashes him an arch look. "You seem to be well-informed, from what I hear."

"Well, you know how it is. Despite my busy days," Crowley jangles the chain attached to his wrist for emphasis, "I make time to chat."

"I, too, like to stay on top of things. I want to know what's happening in my own castle. At the moment, though, there are too many loose ends." She glances at the dwarves who've escorted Crowley in. "All of you, get out. Except the one with the chains, but take his weapon."

Ginarrbrik throws one last skeptical look at Crowley before he leads his dwarves away. The unfortunate who's shackled to Crowley's wrist stays behind. His short sword goes with his comrades.

"There are too many plotters in this castle, and too many plots. There's no way to know who I can trust. I feel a need to… simplify things," the Queen says.

Crowley throws a guileless look her way. It covers up the victory he's feeling inside. "Do you really think that's necessary?"

"Oh yes. So here's the deal. Either you're an asset who's willing to snitch on whatever you get to hear during those chats of yours, or you're an obstacle." The Queen is toying with her wand again.

"I don't know anything," Crowley says. The wand doesn't scare him any more.

"In that case, there's one loose end that we can tie off here and now," the Queen says, smiling. She blasts Crowley in the gut but he's so used to the dark energy now, it barely tickles him. Still, he slumps to the ground, dragging on his captor's arm. "Hold him still."

The dwarf has a firm grasp on the chain, but Crowley's not trying to flee just yet. Not when the moment of his triumph is at hand. He stays curled on the ground as she steps a mere foot away, towering over him. Her breath is a plume of frost in the cold air.

The Queen lifts Crowley by the throat, her other hand slowly drawing a knife. Her physical strength is well beyond that of a human, he notes. His windpipe is squeezed shut but he's not quite mortal, so it's more an irritant than a problem. She stares into his eyes, and he can see that she's enjoying his struggles.

With a quick twist, Crowley frees his wrist from the chains binding him and grabs the dagger tucked into his jacket. Before the Queen is able to cut at him, he slides the blade between her ribs. There's less resistance than he expects, and less blood on his hands; she doesn't scream, either, but sighs in disappointment. The sigh carries on until a few drops of red cross her lips.

All the strength flows out of her and she drops Crowley, pressing a hand to the hole in her side. The dagger is hilt-deep, and the handle vibrates with every breath she takes.

The dwarf grabs at him, hissing in anger, but Crowley hops behind him and wraps an arm around his throat. It doesn't take long for him to fall. After the brief struggle is over, Crowley is the only one left on his feet. He stands over the Queen's crumpled form; she finally pulls the dagger out and it clatters down beside her.

It's not quite what Crowley had planned, but perfect is the enemy of good, and he's happy with the outcome.

"Who are you?" the Queen moans from the floor, clutching at the wound in her side. A pool of red spreads around her, marring the white tiles.

Crowley tucks his sunglasses away. His yellow eyes are alight with triumph. "I come from the deepest pits of hell. Crowley, I'm called, and I'm a demon the likes of which you've never met before. You've heard of the original sin? That was me."

He scoops up the wand and shoots the dwarven guard who's out cold on the ground, manacle still attached to his wrist. Then Crowley breaks it over his knee. The wand is tougher than it looks, but it can't resist for long. The magical discharge hangs in the air, thick and heavy.

After that, it's the work of a moment to slip his hand back into the open end of the manacle and watch the Queen breathe her last. When the body has gone still, Crowley waits another few seconds to be sure. Then he screams.

"Murder! Murder most foul!"

Otmin is the first to reach the room, and he's brought a patrol with him. What a piece of good fortune. "What happened here?" the minotaur general demands.

"You were right to be wary of Ginarrbrik. It was the dwarves," Crowley shouts, "they killed the Queen! They sent a representative. He had a list of demands, but she refused, and then he," he points to the statue, "stabbed her!"

The stone dwarf is in no position to argue. Otmin examines the body from a distance. "It's a dwarven dagger, no doubt about it," he decides.

Crowley can barely contain his glee as Ginarrbrik bursts into the room a bare second later.

"You," Otmin growls, drawing his enormous war axe. "Kill the traitor!"

The Queen's soldiers–or Otmin's soldiers now, Crowley supposes–don't hesitate. Ginarrbrik has brought a handful of dwarves with him and they are immediately beset. Otmin himself charges Ginarrbrik, laying about with his oversized weapon.

"No! We're being played for fools!" Ginarrbrik shouts, dodging swings of the massive war-axe. "Otmin, please, you must–"

The enraged minotaur takes his head clean off. Behind Ginarrbrik's corpse the rest of the dwarves take off running. Crowley figures that's as good a cue as any to quietly slip out the side door.

It takes two days for the war between the dwarves and the minotaur to end. A handful of dwarves escape and Otmin's forces are celebrating their triumph in the banquet hall when one of the stone supports collapses, sending the ceiling down on their heads.

Crowley strolls through the wreckage, humming. He's never quite got the hang of whistling, so he makes do.

-O-

"The ice is melting! The Queen is dead!" Tumnus shouts. Aziraphale looks at the collapsing castle through the thinning fog and recognises Crowley's handiwork immediately. The main hall has fallen apart completely, and several of the towers are sagging.

Word filters back through the ragtag army. There won't be any need to fight; the castle is in ruins and the Queen is dead. The cheering starts, and Aziraphale doesn't think it will stop any time soon.

His spirits soar when he catches sight of a familiar figure in Italian leather. "Crowley! I was coming to rescue you!"

"Oh hi, angel. I see you've been busy," Crowley says, gesturing at the soldiers.

Aziraphale smiles. "Well, I was worried. Perhaps that was unnecessary, though. What happened?"

"Y'know, kidnapping, manipulation, murder-as-self-defence, the usual." Crowley grins. "Can you believe the Queen put me in a cell next to her throne room? I beat my personal record for a total societal collapse by two days, thanks to that."

Aziraphale pats him on the back. "You were a little late for our rendezvous, but I suppose that's alright. I have directions for our return to England."

"We'll miss you," Beaver says.

"Thanks for everything, though," Aziraphale says, waving.

Tumnus leaves the cheering crowd to hand them the map of Lantern Waste and the way home. "No, thank you."

-O-

They tumble back out of the wardrobe. Crowley has enough presence of mind to catch Aziraphale before they make any more noise by falling on the floor. The same heavy footsteps are heading to the spare room, and then– they pass by the door. A quiet patter from lighter feet trails after them.

"Oh, stupid time shenanigans," Aziraphale mutters, clutching his forehead. "It's like we were never gone."

"Let's just go to sleep and pretend this never happened," Crowley growls. "I could get into a lot of trouble over everything that's gone down."

Aziraphale gives him an apologetic smile. "Of course. I do feel a lot better now. All those poor people who are finally free..."

They reach the bedroom and Crowley kicks his shoes off then falls flat on his face on the bed. He's snoring within minutes and Aziraphale can't tell if it's faked or real. He settles down on his own bed to get some shuteye.

"Get up, angel," Crowley says the next morning, shaking Aziraphale's arm. "We're eating and then we're leaving. I can't wait to get back to civilisation."

Aziraphale frowns. "Don't pretend like this is some hellish wasteland–"

"Watch the," Crowley looks around and then whispers the next word, "hellish description. Some of us have been there and know how bad it really is."

"Sorry," Aziraphale says. "Let's get some food."

The spare room is empty. Crowley opens the door a crack and they both peer through. The wardrobe looks smaller in the light of day. There's no trace of last night's adventure. Aziraphale shrugs and gestures towards the dining room, and Crowley closes the door firmly.

"The Pevensies arrived late last night, so they won't be joining us for breakfast," Professor Kirke says, smiling. "I thought it kinder to let them sleep. It turns out they were merely delayed a while."

Crowley kicks Aziraphale under the table, hissing at him. "We didn't have to do anything after all, angel. All that stress and work was for nothing."

"Still," Aziraphale mutters. "I'd rather we went through all that nastiness than them. They're just kids, after all. They're much too young to get caught up in a revolution."

Then the maid brings over another tray of pastries and they're busy eating until the plates are cleared. Professor Kirke assures them they are welcome to stay another day if they want, but Crowley has had enough of the countryside and declines the offer before Aziraphale can get a word in edgeways.

The Bentley is still parked on the gravel outside. There's a few dead leaves that have fallen on the bonnet but Crowley pulls out a soft cloth from the boot and sets to polishing the bodywork before he lets Aziraphale get any closer. Once he's satisfied he opens the passenger door and gestures for the angel to take a seat.

"What I want to know," Crowley says slowly, "is what would have happened if I hadn't stopped the train. Would Narnia still have been freed? Or were we meant to go through the wardrobe?"

"I suppose it's one of those ineffable things. Good always triumphs," Aziraphale says, prim and proper as he gets into the Bentley.

Crowley groans and shuts the car door. "Oh, give it a rest, angel." He can't quite hide his smile.


End file.
